


Progeny (???)

by BirdAntlers



Category: Deltarune (Video Game)
Genre: Blood, Child Abuse, Different species, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Kinda, OOC, Physical Abuse, Rouxls is a gud dad, if you think there's something there there isnt, it doesn't affect the story just read the notes, lancer is a bit older in this, like 90 percent angst, rouxls is having a perpetual stroke, still a preteen tho, syd makes 10 million plot adjustments, the king is a manipulative shit, there are NO ships in this or hints of em, we stan one (1) stressed dad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-08-29 13:05:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16744543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BirdAntlers/pseuds/BirdAntlers
Summary: The Spade King is only getting older, and so is his son. Change is coming. Rouxls Kaard can see where this path ends, but he's helpless to stop it. All he can do is prepare.And sometimes all you can do isn't enough.(What was I smoking writing this lol)





	1. Snowball Rolling

**Author's Note:**

> Ok now READ THIS before y’all dive right in and be like“what furry shite am I reading” because it isn’t. Lyrrdak are my own species which star in a book series I’m praying I can write someday (and were also originally supposed to be in that dried out corpse of an Invader Zim fic on this blog). My profile pic is actually one of them. The fact that the characters are lyrrdak in this story is ALL THAT IS DIFFERENT. Other than some little things I threw in to make sense neither the plot nor characters are affected. If it runs you off I don't blame you but  
> I HIGHLY recommend you look at the [original doodles](https://aarmyk.tumblr.com/post/180467027679/delta-rune-idk-im-too-flustered-to-draw-real) that spawned this mess before you read so you don’t get thrown off when I mention a wing or whatever.
> 
> This started as a little side spiel I wrote on vacation to shake off writer's’ block but I figured ‘eh I’ll post it’ since it would just be gathering dust in a sea of google docs otherwise. It also grew into a monster of a oneshot but eh maybe it's not too long?? Idk I gauge fic length by how tall the little scroll thing is on my phone.
> 
> If you want me to continue this speak up! I’d love to hear it. Do I have any idea HOW I would continue it? No. Would I try? Yes.

Dull thuds echoed down the hall, punctuated by grunts or, occasionally, yelps.

Rouxls shuffled uncomfortably at each sound, feathers prickling. He tried to busy himself with what he was doing, but scraping weeds out of cracks in the floor wasn't the most captivating activity in the world. There was nothing else in this room to do anyway; by now it was probably the cleanest in the castle. For the past week, any excuse Rouxls had found to stay there went, even if it meant something as stupid as picking at the walls or sweeping for an hour with his tail.

Because he needed to be close. He needed to be within hearing range of the courtyard, and he needed to be able to get to any healing supplies nearby. This painfully insignificant, barren breezeway was the best spot he had found so far.

The racket had started to die down; the outbursts coming fewer and farther between. It was time to go. Rouxls started down the corridor, claws clicking on the stone. He longed to break into a run, but he forced himself to walk. It was best not to look too urgent.

Cool, damp air washed over him as he reached the courtyard. Black vines hung down over the archway, hiding him, but he could hear what was happening well enough.

“Use your legs!” A beat. Something skidded over the dirt and was halted by the sound of skin smacking together. Rouxls heard a choking exhale. Then, silence. A deep, disappointed growl bounced off the walls like thunder.

“You’re too slow. If this was real, you'd be dead where you lie.” There was no reply; only strained breathing. Rouxls heard a snarl and another blow fell. The one who'd been struck could only muster a gasp.

“Get up, then,” the voice snapped. No response. “Up. _Now.”_ Silence. More growls. “Fine. Go lick your wounds like prey.” There was a pause. “Get out of my sight,” the voice whispered, cold and empty as night.

Frantic scrambling in the dirt announced the loser's getaway, and the next moment, a blue-gray blur whipped around the vines and froze in front of Rouxls. Wide, navy eyes blinked fearfully at him, hazy with adrenaline.

Rouxls gasped, gritting his teeth. Lancer, the crown prince, was hunched over and bleeding from several cuts all over. A particularly bad one split the skin on his beak, not bleeding too badly, but letting pale bone peek through. Loose feathers drifted to the ground where they'd been raked out of their follicles, all sticky with black, and dark bruises stained his flanks and limbs.

Rouxls' mouth went dry. For the past week; since he’d turned ten, Lancer's father had been sparring with him each day, “easing” him into regular combat training that, as far as Rouxls knew, was indefinite. It had been abysmal so far. Not only was the young heir terrible at fighting, his father was morbidly good at it, and didn't hold back in the slightest, even with his son.

Rouxls’ stomach turned at the sight of him now, gray feathers flat with fear, and he tossed his head in the direction he had come from. A little signal they'd come up with that meant _get to the shop._

Lancer glanced nervously between Rouxls and his father before limping as fast as possible down the corridor. Rouxls’ chest tightened. There was few an occasion where Lancer was stunned into silence, and most had been within the past few days.

He was about to turn and follow him when a booming call froze him to the spot.

“Kaard," it said. Rouxls’ breath caught. Had the King known he was there this whole time? He gulped, trying to make his feathers lay flat as he hurried out of the entryway.

Rouxls went at what he thought was a loose trot; doing his best to look relaxed, but in actuality it was more of a panicked sprint combined with trying not to slip on the sand.

“Yes?” he blurted, stumbling into a mantle. “I mean—yes, my _lord.”_ Rouxls mentally kicked himself.

His only response was a slow drag of the King’s tail through the dust in front of him (he dared not look up yet). It flicked, suddenly, spraying sand in Rouxls’ face. Some of it flew in his eyes and he bit down on a hiss, shaking his head.

“What did we talk ab—rise.” Rouxls shot up, grateful to stand. He still kept low, though. It was a good idea to humble yourself. When the King didn’t turn around he gulped.

“What did I say,” he continued. “About you and your little urge to… hover?” Rouxls’ heart was hammering. What was he supposed to do now—perch on the roof like a gargoyle? The King wasn’t even facing him and still he stared shamefully at his claws like a child.

“You—” He cleared his throat. “I mean, _thou—”_

 _“I said,”_ the King thundered, rounding suddenly. “That my heir is more than ready to take on more age-befitting status, which includes—if you recall—” he arched down so that he was staring Rouxls in the face, who was looking paler with each word. _“Significantly_ less coddling from a certain enabling, overreaching wet nurse.” The King snarled out the last words like a fisherman wrenching a hook out of some poor fish’s jawbone. Rouxls felt extraordinarily fish-like.

He straightened, closing his eyes and gulping air. That was all insults were, after all; air. At least he wasn’t the one covered in bone-deep cuts.

 _Lancer,_ he remembered with a pang in his heart. _I have to get back._ Quickly, he sighed the tension and shakiness out of his muscles like a molt, plastering on a grin.

“Thee needn’t worry about such meddlinge,” he said, throwing all the flair he could into his words. “I was only, eh, _‘hovering,’_ my lord, so that I might observ’st the—the _fine_ teaching thou art bestowing upon thy son.” He smiled, albeit strained, silently willing it to have been convincing enough.

The King huffed, tail thudding on the dirt. It was hard to tell in the dark, but he appeared to be mulling Rouxls’ excuse over. At the very least, his ego and not-terribly-bright-ness made him easier to deal with.

The hard part of smoothing an outburst over was gauging the King’s emotions. The gloom of the Darklands was enough, but the King and his son both had black masks and deep, blue-black eyes. Lancer’s, at least, shone like pebbles, but his father’s were more like caves; cold, dull, and completely absorbent of any light that was lucky enough to be found. Rouxls could never truly read him, and that was unsettling.

He was doing it now; staring (or maybe his eyes weren’t open at all?) blankly forward, gears turning. Deciding. Not moving. His heavy tail alone rapped like a metronome on the sand, adding to the tension.

Finally, it broke. “Mm,” he grunted, nothing more. To Rouxls, it was a heavenly chorus. He let himself breathe in a little deeper, and turned to leave. He was nearly out the archway when the growl came again, turning Rouxls back to ice.

“I hope you know why I’m doing this, Kaard,” the King grumbled. “My heir grows older. So do I.” Bitterness simmered like foam under the statement. “When I finally lose my throne, it will _not_ be because I went quietly; asleep in my nest like that old fool before me.” Rouxls shuddered. “And even after I’m a cold smear on these stones,” he growled, “I’d do worse before leaving my rule in the claws of a—of a—” A tiny tooth of anger curled in Rouxls’ stomach, almost daring the king to finish the sentence.

“—of _that child.”_ he snarled.

Not ‘my child.’ Not ‘my son.’ That. Like Lancer was just a vine in this courtyard that the King was shaping to his likeness. An object that he would beat and claw and break until there was nothing left of Lancer but a carbon copy of his father. An avatar tyrant; the next in line. The Spade King’s rule would go on. He would make sure of it. Rouxls’ mouth acted before his mind could.

 _“‘That’_ is your son,” he snapped, blood boiling.

There wasn’t even any noise but an inhale and then what sounded like sand burning; a shrill, grainy wail that smacked into Rouxls’ eardrums and vanished before he could finish jumping out of his skin. Dust tickled his back and when he worked up the courage to open his eyes three clawmarks, like long, spidery vines trailed from above the keystone all the way to the ground. Somewhere in a fog of adrenaline, he thought that maybe Lancer did have it better than he thought.

Something tickled his cheek and Rouxls, strangely calm, reached up and brushed his claws through the black oozing down his face. Two fine lines had been carved from under his eye to his cheekbone, and the King towered over him, wings spread and black eyes icy. His powerful tail was coiled around Rouxls’ ankle.

“We are a precious few now,” he said, oddly soft. “There are only so many of you I can trust.”

 _That’s because everyone else is locked in a hole,_ Rouxls thought numbly.

“So,” the King continued, “Under my good grace, I will elect to ignore that little dig. For old friends’ sake.” His voice was sickly jovial. Rouxls was sure his ankle was about to snap.

“It seems my son is all that’s keeping you in line,” Rouxls paled, snapped around to the King and shaking his head incredulously. _No,_ he thought. Just no, in his head, over and over. _You can’t._ Despite his weak, terrified protest, the King just smiled.

“Oh, come now—friends don’t lie to each other, Kaard. I only want what’s best for all of us.” Rouxls was shaking, thinking; _you beat your son. You beat him within an inch of his life._ He didn’t dare speak, or move. Standing on all fours, he could barely scent Lancer’s blood in the sand. He wanted to vomit.

“Now,” the King continued. “It’s very hard for me to do that when there are these little…” He waved a claw. “—detours everywhere.”

His leg was suddenly yanked out from under him and Rouxls made a pitiful squeak as his ankle popped, twisting. He prayed, distantly, that it was only sprained. The King stood over him, mantling not out of respect, but as if Rouxls was prey. Shivering belly-up on the ground, he felt every bit like it.

“I may not be able to kill you Rouxls Kaard,” the King whispered. His voice was hollow and his hidden eyes were like black holes; invisible, yawning, and all-consuming. He thought he had read a book about black holes once.

“I may _never_ be able to kill you, but it would still be very easy to keep you out of the picture. Remember—” he ran the side of his claw along the cuts on Rouxls’ face. It tickled. “Perhaps no one can take your position, but _anyone_ can watch a child.”

A ball of ice sank in Rouxls’ stomach. No.

“Think of how much easier it would be to get some real work done,” the King crooned. “How much of a relief it would be to have some peace and quiet.” They were threats. Rouxls knew it.

“So,” the King said, clapping his claws together. He was back to the jolly voice. “I think I’ll sit on this for now. If there are any more sidetracks, I’ll take it as a sign you two need to be separated.”

And there it was; the kicker. Rouxls stared blankly at him, mind racing. _No way out,_ he thought miserably, unsure if the King was even still speaking. _Can’t protect him from his father, can’t stop him from becoming his father, can’t stop time…_

_Oh, God, what do I do?_

“Good talk,” he quipped. “You’re dismissed.” The gruff words hardly registered in Rouxls’ mind, but he obeyed as the splintering pressure on his leg vanished.

Rouxls couldn’t do much, but he could run, and run he did; putting as much ground as possible between him and that accursed courtyard. Cold air whipped his feathers and made his cuts itch and his lungs burned, animal fear and anguish fueling his escape.

The Spade King’s shadow seemed to chase his heels, making the skin on his back tingle and itch with the need to get away. To shake off the cold darkness just beyond his peripheral vision. Always there; always just out of reach.

 

* * *

 

“I thought you weren’t coming,” came the uncharacteristically quiet greeting. Rouxls, who had been dazedly leaning on the doorframe, perked up at the voice, stumbling into the threshold. Well, it wasn’t a threshold so much as a welcome mat and a crate serving as a counter.

“I got sidetracked,” he breathed, not bothering with affluent speech. “I’m sorry.” It was a piss-poor excuse, but Rouxls was hardly in a mind to dive into a recount.

He staggered around his “counter” and back further into his den/shop, where a trail of gray feathers led to his nest. Any other day he’d have fussed over the mess, but he only sighed as he peered over the lip at the wilted ball of feathers in the bottom.

Lancer barely moved, even after Rouxls said his name twice and coaxed him with food. Finally, he sighed, reaching in to get the yearling out himself.

His claws were hardly around Lancer’s sides when he thrashed and threw his head back in a howl of pain. Rouxls started and let go, and Lancer rolled back into the base of the nest, curling back in on himself and drawing rapid, shallow breaths.

“Lancer?” Rouxls gasped, reaching with a claw to gently turn the yearling over, who let out a weak whine.

Rouxls grit his teeth. A dark, angry cloud had spread over Lancer’s side where he’d been struck earlier, before he’d run off. There were also several inky smears in the nest-lining where Lancer had been lying.

Burning, useless anger clenched Rouxls’ stomach, and he scrunched his eyes shut before he got overwhelmed. There was a task at hand.

“Lancer, this is probably going to hurt,” he said. Lancer opened his eyes for the first time since Rouxls had walked in, blinking with fearful curiosity.

“I’m sorry, but I must,” he said, and bent down as far as he could to grab Lancer by the scruff and haul him out of the nest. The yearling went stiff in his jaws and luckily only a pained hiss escaped him.

Rouxls set his weak little charge on the floor of his den and gently managed to peel his wings off his sides. The massive bruise on his ribs was his main concern. Rouxls withered; he was going to have to check them. Frantically, he grabbed a wide stick from his nest and held it in front of Lancer.

“Bite it,” he commanded. Lancer blinked blearily at him.

“Nn’stick?” he managed to ask. Rouxls huffed.

“Yes, a stick—now, bite!” Lancer obeyed, and Rouxls moved his wings back again. “When it hurts, bite the stick instead of shouting.” Lancer’s feathers stood on end, but he nodded.

Rouxls pressed his forefoot lightly into the bruise. Lancer stiffened so hard he shook, and there was a hiss, but he stayed quiet. “Good,” Rouxls murmured, half to himself. “It’s going to hurt a bit more this time.” He pushed, feeling for Lancer’s ribs, tracing them carefully down and back again in case he missed any breaks. He did this three or four times until he reached the edge of the bruise.

Lancer was taking it better than he thought, but he was shaking terribly, and tears were rolling down his cheeks by the time Rouxls was sure there were no broken ribs.

“Okay,” he sighed, finally. “You can spit it out.” There was a gasp and a hiccup and Lancer immediately curled up again. Rouxls shook his head, pity and nerves warring in his chest. And anger. Terribly strong, bitter anger that he was having to keep from showing on his face.

“I’m sorry, my prince,” he mumbled. “We’re not finished.” A half-hearted groan was all he got back, the most Lancer-like thing he’d heard from him all day.

“Don’t start,” he chided, lightly. “There’s no way to set your ribs anyway. Until they heal—”

“I’m going to be stuck like this?!” Lancer panicked, lifting his head to balk at Rouxls. “But-but I can’t move!”

“Hush,” Rouxls said, mostly to himself, laying a wing over Lancer’s back. “Now, your ribs aren’t broken, Lancer, they’re bruised. And yes, ‘tis going to hurt for a while, but luckily,” he smiled, “Thou art strong.”

Instead of looking reassured, Lancer just looked frightened. Even suspicious, Rouxls realized with a start.

“But I’m not—” he gulped air, too sore to take more than a small breath at a time. “strong,” he said matter-of-factly; like it was common knowledge. “Dad said when we were—” Breath. “—sparring that I had to throw him on—” Breath. “—the ground or I would never be king.”

A bitter, scared knot tied in Rouxls’ stomach at the truth of it. Lancer would have to do much more than throw him down to become king.

“Thy father has the girth of a mountain,” he snapped, angrily. “No one down here could tackle him. Not me, nary anyone.” Lancer stared at him vacantly, and Rouxls worried that he’d spoken too harshly about his father. But the yearling cocked his head, ears pricked.

“Mountain?” he asked in confusion. Rouxls blinked, and laughed, shaking his head awkwardly. Right. Underground.

“Eh, thine think’st it’s like a large hill,” he stammered. “I don’t recall from whence I heard it…”

Lancer blinked and suddenly smiled, ears perking up. He perfomed a strange sort of not-giggle by breathing rapidly instead of full-on laughing. It must have hurt too much to do so.

“You called my dad fat,” he wheezed, not-laughing like it was the greatest joke ever told. Rouxls straightened, retracting his wing and feathers fluffing with embarrassment.

“Th—I did no such—!”

“Dad’s fat! Dad’s fat!” Lancer extolled, though not nearly as loud as usual. Outwardly, he was annoyed, but inside, Rouxls could have sang. He was always terrified that one day, Lancer wouldn’t go back to his loud, obnoxious, happy self, and he was always overjoyed when he did. Today was safe.

“Now see’st here, _water_ beetle,” he said, playfully, hooking a basin out from under a table. “You’re filthy, and you’re going to sit there while I go fill this up.” Lancer stared at him with a “where would I go?” expression and Rouxls looked at the ground awkwardly. “Just stay there,” he snapped.

After making sure no one was watching, Rouxls hurried outside and heaved a huge sigh, feeling all the warmth and happiness drain out of him like sand through claws. He’d seemed to have gotten Lancer to quit thinking about his ribs, at least.

 _What am I going to do?_ He wondered, feeling two inches tall. If he couldn’t protect Lancer, was that any better than being completely separated from him?

 _Yes,_ he thought almost immediately. Rouxls may have fussed about him, but inside he knew he’d go crazy if the yearling vanished out of his life. His jobs were so dull and tedious, and he had no friends. Not really. Any acquaintances he’d had before the takeover were in jail now anyway (and were definitely not fans of him anymore). Anyone who he saw regularly kept to themselves and if they did interact, it was mainly through awkward small talk.

He’d read in some dredged-up magazine once that humans would rather suffer minor electrocution than be bored (freakish creatures), and he supposed his friendship with Lancer was like that; no matter how much the yearling pestered him, it was still preferable to having no one.

Lancer was the only soul he could think of that really, genuinely enjoyed Rouxls’ presence, and so Rouxls had grown rather fond of his.

He knew the prince had no friends; not even before the takeover. There had never really been any children in the castle besides Clover, who had once deemed herself too old to play with him at the ripe age of eleven. Lancer had never tried again, especially since she was a teenager now. His father hadn’t cared when he’d tattled and pleaded for him to make her (this all had been elaborately blabbed to Rouxls some afternoon long-past).

Anyone with friend-making potential outside the castle had learned to avoid Lancer altogether, either out of fear that they would be punished for rejecting the prince, or because Lancer could be a little… extreme for some other kids. For most other kids. Okay, for all of them.

Lancer was unique that was for sure, and Rouxls wouldn’t have him any different. He was the only one that seemed happy down here.

Which was what made Rouxls’ blood boil whenever he’d run and hide behind his legs at a sudden noise, or show up with mysterious bruises, or say that he wasn’t strong or smart or good. Rouxls wasn’t a fighter, but it was those moments that made him feel like he could kill.

“Are you alright there?” Rouxls started, whipping around to face the sentry that blinked up at him. He looked around, wondering where his house had gone and realized that he’d absentmindedly walked all the way out of the castle and to the well.

“Yes,” he said, unable to form a more eloquent answer. The guard raised an eye ridge, but shrugged and turned away nonetheless. Rouxls waited till the sentry’s footsteps had faded before shaking his head. That was nigh five minutes he’d wasted lost in thought when he could have just flown.

“One day you’re going to fall into this thing,” he growled, reaching for the handle. He’d already hauled up the first bucket of water when he realized he’d forgotten to pick up the basin by the door.

 

* * *

 

An hour later, Rouxls was wringing out a rag full of dirt and dried blood, grimacing. If it was one thing he couldn’t deal with, it was blood, and Lancer had been practically caked in it. _Ugh._

They had sat in the floor with the basin of watered-down rubbing alcohol between them, Lancer trying not to recoil when it seeped into his cuts and Rouxls trying not to gag while he cleaned them. It was a while before they’d both decided to call it quits. He’d gotten the nastiest ones anyway. It looked like the king hadn’t used his teeth, at least.

 _But how long until he does?_ Rouxls thought miserably. He didn’t want to think about it now, and hastily threw the rag in the empty basin. He’d wash it later.

Lancer was milling around the door looking disappointed. There was no sun to go by, but they knew it was nearly his bedtime. He normally put up a fight at this hour, but tonight he just sat by the door with his head down, looking terribly sad.

Rouxls frowned and stalked over to him, curling his long tail around his shoulders. He tried to get a laugh out of him by tickling his face with his feathers, but Lancer just jerked away. Rouxls was almost hurt.

“I’ll be right here if thine side starts hurting,” he offered. Lancer just looked miserably up at him, trying to smile.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, avoiding Rouxls’ eyes as if he was ashamed. “Um, next door is just going to be my playroom from now on, or maybe even a _man cave.”_ He puffed his down-covered chest out dramatically with the declaration, but his eyes were still sad. Rouxls arched a brow.

“And why, pray tell, dost thou say so?” Lancer blinked.

“Because I’m badass!” he exclaimed. “And the badassest guys’ gotta have a man cave!” Rouxls rolled his eyes.

“Crass,” he said. “Art thou certain it’s nothing to do with me?” Lancer looked down.

“No,” he said, quietly. Rouxls’ heart sank. Was Lancer lying to him? He’d never lied before.

“And the man cave is always open to you!” he said, before opening the door and trying to ease his way down the step.

“Not so fast.” Rouxls grabbed him by the scruff and hauled him back in the doorway before Lancer could get away. “Just where art thou going’st to sleep, then?”

Lancer’s feathers lay a little flatter. “In the Diamond room,” he muttered. “It looked really cool… and big. Lot’s of room. Very _roomy._ Heh.”

Rouxls was practically looking through his eyelashes at Lancer. His tail twitched. “Rather curious—I thought yon royal chambers frightened thee. Could have sworn thou said’st that they were cold and haunted. I dost recall thee saying they were quiet and _too_ large.”

Lancer was shrinking in on himself with every word, looking more and more uncomfortable. Now, instead of lying flat his feathers were bristling, and Rouxls was feeling more and more concerned that he wouldn’t speak his mind.

“I—um… Goodnightthanksforfixingmeup.” And he was out the door.

Rouxls watched him leave, scampering as fast as he could off toward the more private areas of the castle. _What_ had that been about? Obviously the prince’s father was behind this, but what was the point of moving his room?

 _To keep him close,_ Rouxls realized with dismay. _Close and away from me. From anyone._

So this was how things were going to be now. The King was going to gradually force his son into his life, grooming him to be a little Spade King copy while cutting him off from anything that might influence him otherwise.

It was sickening. The child’s father was finally letting him into his life, but only to use him. And Rouxls knew despite everything that Lancer was probably eating it up. Bruised ribs, scary rooms and all. He was also lying to spare Rouxls’ feelings, which made him feel even worse.

Closing the door behind him, Rouxls crossed the pathway to Lancer’s old room, next to his own den. He did say the door was always open. What greeted him when he went inside made him gasp in shock.

there was _nothing._ Not toys, not furniture, just some stray feathers in the corners and a few crayons lying against the wall. It was like nothing had even been here. When had they done this—today? Last night? Rouxls didn’t know, but the sight was so sad that he wanted to cry. It felt so wrong.

The King was going to steal Lancer’s entire childhood from him. He was going to steal _Lancer._ And Rouxls could do nothing but watch. Not knowing what else to do, he swept up what little was left with his tail and took it home, dropping crayons, feathers and all into a jar. It just felt wrong to leave it there, like he’d been forgotten already.

 

* * *

 

"Ow!”

Rouxls shifted, half-wondering if he’d dreamed the sound when he sensed movement near him. Lifting his head to look around he met two startled, black eyes inches from his face and yelped.

“Lancer!” he groaned. “Don’t do that.” The prince had his forelegs on the lip of his nest. Attempting to climb inside must have hurt his ribs.

“My side hurts,” he whispered. “And… it was cold up there.” He looked away, ears drooping. Rouxls could barely hear him. “And scary.” Lancer’s voice wavered, and pity washed away any irritation of Rouxls’.

Wordlessly he reached up and lifted Lancer into the nest by his scruff. He sniffled, once, and burrowed under Rouxls’ wing. He _was_ cold, Rouxls noted. And shaking. He shifted to wrap his other wing around him, minding his side and curling his body around him like a parent to its chick. Thick baby down made his wings itch, but he didn’t care. Lancer was already calmer.

“Why did you lie to me today?” he murmured, eyes closed. Another wobbly whimper drifted out from under his wings.

“I don’t know.” Lancer’s voice was thick with tears. “I thought it would sound—sound better telling you. I didn’t wanna go,” he blubbered.

“I know,” Rouxls said, heart aching. “I’m sorry.”

“Why?” He blinked his eyes open. Damn it. He hadn’t meant to say that out loud. He couldn’t say ‘sorry your life’s destroyed!’

“About your room,” he said.

“Oh.”

They lay there like that for a minute, Rouxls holding him and smoothing his feathers where they’d been pushed back. Lancer had stopped crying.

“Lancer,” Rouxls said quietly. “I need you to promise me something.”

“What?” came the soft reply.

“Don’t ever lie to me again,” he said.

“Okay.” There was a pause.

“You’re growing up, Lancer. T’is happening,” Rouxls said, feeling terrible. His father was the only one making it happen. Too fast. “And growing up is hard, but no matter what happens I promise—” his voice broke, and he took a deep breath, trying to keep his voice steady. “That you are strong, you are kind, and you are loved. You don’t have to be as cruel as the world is. That’s what makes someone good. That’s what makes _you_ good.”

For a moment there was no sign Lancer had heard him, and Rouxls started to worry he’d already drifted off, but then tiny bandaged claws wrapped around his, and he could barely hear the tender words whispered into his neck.

“I love you.”

Ten different emotions slammed into him and he was glad it was too dark for Lancer to see that he was crying. He wanted to take him far away from this damn lifeless castle to somewhere sunny where he would never have a hand laid on him again; a mountain, maybe. He wanted to tear him away from his lineage and let him grow up to be a candlemaker if he wanted; the hell Rouxls cared. As long as he was happy. He wanted to see his skin unmarred until it was wrinkly, unlike his father’s, which was a road map of scar tissue. He wanted him to fly. He wanted him to grow old. He wanted him to never to have to do backbreaking work or feel like he had no one to talk to. He wanted him to be as crazy and loud as he wanted. Everything else in a hundred mile radius vanished in his mind. For five weepy seconds, that distant place was his dearest wish.

Because he loved Lancer too.

Rouxls waited for the storm of emotions to pass, quietly shaking. Finally he took a deep breath. Alone with his thoughts, reality seeped coldly back into his mind. He wasn’t on some sunlit hill; he was in a dark hole, unable to even comfort a 10-year old whose father beat him unless he never wanted to see him again. Cold terror licked like flames at his resolve.

“Lancer,” he whispered. “What would you do if something happened to me?”

But there was no response. Lancer had fallen asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrrdak have eyelashes and I always forget it tbh. Also Kaard is actually a valid Vyrrhian name. Mantling is when a bird of prey or vulture kind of hunches over their food with their wings spread. It makes a good birdish action for bowing/showing respect (Skit’s tip o’ the day)
> 
> oml HOW do y’all write in that Renaissance speak?? It felt so weird and kinda dumb. Props. Props to y’all for making it work, jeez. I think that Rouxls would be able to kinda drop the act around Lancer though, esp if it’s a bad day or if he's half asleep like in the last part. I just can’t see a panicked adult spouting forsooths and prithee around a hurt kid
> 
> Ok so to break some of this down, within my weird species rules, Rouxls is a syrikal; a breed of lyrrdak that likes to go f a s t, and also tends to have anxiety. Kind of like cheetahs; all legs no chill. Lance and his dad are albas, which are more stocky, emotional, and energetic. Also thicc. They’re tunnelers which is how King was able to cut through rock with his claws. OP, but it makes sense in Delta context. Don’t get lost in the sauce too much; that’s for me to do: “Undertale shit?? and?? ?? Big Alien Birds?? Collide?? What do?” This I guess. Keep in mind I write about these animals like, constantly so what you may be looking at going “what the hell” is what is on my mind 24/7. Chaos.


	2. The Talking Chapter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look more [arts](https://aarmyk.tumblr.com/tagged/progeny)
> 
> Well because I'm a scatterbrain I went and wrote the last chapter of this and a bunch more before I even finished this one.. so that's something. That’s why this took so long I have like a 70 page google doc now
> 
> I’ve decided that in this AU, alteration, thing, the characters are going to be able to use magic, but not necessarily for fighting. Also I wrote chapter 1 on a crazy whim in like two days so I have no shame in admitting that it’s meh. I’m writing it for fun too so I don’t really care about making it super solid lol. “Deltarune but with jacked space dinosaurs” is a crazy enough idea so I’m not entirely concerned with fussing over why they have furniture or whatever. Embarrased, maybe, but not concerned. I think I said something similar in the last chapter notes but no harm repeating haha
> 
> I’m probably just gonna be straight up bending canon to my will because there are some things that aren’t gonna work with lyrrdak, who are both able to fly and massively strong, not counting ridgebacks or kilryns (two other breeds who’ll be side characters if anything in this fic). I already know Kris and Susie aren’t going to be in this at all, and I’m trying to find out how I’m going to write filler stuff because what’s happening in this chapter compared with the last couple chapters is stupidly drastic and I have to figure out how to make it happen.

“Where are we?” Lancer finally asked, glancing nervously around. He’d never been down here.

“Quiet,” his father growled. The blue-white flame hovering above them didn’t stretch beyond a sweep of their tails, and the air was musty and bone-cold. His ribs were feeling better now; more like a regular bruise than a fracture, though Rouxls still looked worried every time he twisted just right and winced.

Lancer kept close to his father’s heels, not daring to brush against him. He had stumbled a few times trying to get down the cramped spiral staircase like that, but it was better than having his father be mad at him. He wondered who had had the nerve even build a staircase like that. The stone steps were ancient; all at slightly different heights and _all_ of them too steep. He’d ended up having to take them one at a time, scrambling as to not to be left in the dark (his father waited for no one).

Wherever they had ended up must have been miles below the castle. The air itself felt thicker; like it’d been squashed by the massive weight of stone over their heads. Lancer tried not to think about it, but a knot formed in his stomach, and he glanced nervously at a column yawning out of the dark for signs of cracks. There was nothing, though.

Phew.

Living in the Darklands and all, Lancer could consider himself a connoisseur of well, the dark. There was the thin, watery dark that was perpetually outside; dim, but you could see well enough. Where the ambient, bluish ‘light’ outside came from was a mystery, but it filtered down evenly and constantly from the sky no matter where you were. Then there were feathery shadows outside that sort of bled into it. The ones that made your eyes strain if you tried to find where the dimness ended and the shadow began.

Then there was any darkness that was on the inside of buildings. That was the darkest kind, mostly, and the kind that freaked Lancer out. His new room was too big to ever be completely free of it, and the fancy architecture inside cast warped shadows that shifted like living creatures whenever he moved. Then again, the room had probablybeen intended for someone who wasn’t afraid of the darkest-dark anymore.

Every level of darkness had a kind of feel to it that was more noticable the thicker it got. It was almost like static, or like a second layer of skin just barely touching your own. The less you could see, the more your body tried to sense anything near you, and so you were more aware of it than normal because you were constantly thinking about it, or something like that. That was how Rouxls had tried to explain it to him.

Right now, in this place, Lancer felt like ants were crawling all over him. The small, fuzzy circle around them didn’t matter. This was the darkest place he had ever been in. Nothing else came close. The blackness beyond their little disc of light felt separate from the air, and Lancer felt it on him everywhere his eyes couldn’t see.

He wondered if his dad felt it at all—he didn’t seem bothered. He just led on, talons set in some invisible line. After a while, curiosity overrode Lancer’s fear, and he started squinting into the black, trying to see anything besides the occasional column, and walking as close to the edge of the firelight as he could. There was nothing, though. Just the darkness, thick as a wall.

Were they even still under the castle? It felt like they could have been to the field and back by now. Lancer was getting worn out. Hiis claws were freezing and sore from walking on nothing but cold stone, but he didn’t dare open his mouth. That was a new bruise waiting to happen.

He was so lost in thought and so used to walking that Lancer didn’t notice his father had stopped beside him. Ears pricking, he looked around, hoping to see something different, and then screamed when the flame his father had been carrying all this time suddenly winked out.

A rough tree trunk that Lancer knew was his father’s tail slammed into his shoulders from somewhere, but he only cried out again in shock. It was like his eyes weren't even open. He gasped (not a scream, at least) as he felt rough pads and giant claws curl into his shoulder.

“Are you honestly going to cry over the dark?” his father groaned. The claws in his shoulder tightened, holding back, but still close to breaking the skin.

 _I’m not crying,_ Lancer thought, gritting his teeth in discomfort. He didn’t even think about saying it.

“No,” he muttered instead.

A low growl rang in the empty space around him, and Lancer felt the feathers on his back stand up in fear.

“Hm,” his father rumbled. The claws unclamped from his shoulder, and in a strange way Lancer was more afraid without them there. He felt nothing but the floor beneath his talons, cold and devoid. It was like he was floating alone in a deep, black ocean. Only the freezing stone held him down.

He heard his father inhale, and then more startling than before, the light returned. Ghostly blue-white flame—brighter than before—flared to life in his father’s claws several feet away, casting frightening shadows on his face. He held it for a moment, eyes glowing softly as the fire crackled with energy. Lancer watched, spellbound, as he hurled it into a dip in the ground at his talons. It flared up with a _whuf_ and flowed like water along four ruts cut into the floor. A line of fire raced toward Lancer, and he just barely jumped out of the way before it sped past him and off into the distance.

Three other lines branched off of the pit and spiraled outward, forming a massive disc of silent fire.

Lancer blinked in shock as his eyes adjusted; they were standing in a room so large that he couldn't see any walls. A stone forest of columns and pointed arches spread out forever in every direction that was dizzying to look at, but most shocking and unsettling of all were the hundreds of stone statues that surrounded them, bordered by flames. They were all posed identically; sitting erect on a stone block with their tails folded over their claws. Dull, firm eyes stared blankly out, scrutinizing all who crossed their path. Lancer ogled in astonishment before understanding settled cold in his gut.

This was a crypt.

It could be nothing else. The statues all had writing on the stone at their feet. Beneath the text were small inset rectangles that Lancer assumed, darkly, were for dust. They looked like long-sealed trays that could be slid out. He shuddered.

All Lancer’s life, _this_ had been beneath his talons? He turned and jumped at the stern face of an alba glowering down at him. He crept backwards to his father’s side, so taken aback by the sight that he forgot to give him space. The King growled roughly, but to Lancer’s shock, didn’t push him away.

Instead he asked, “do you know what this place is?” His voice rang in the air for a moment before the size of the room seemed to swallow the sound.

“It’s—” Lancer gulped. “—it’s a tomb?” He was starting to feel less dumbstruck and more creeped out.

The king nodded, glowering with a firelit gaze out into the ocean of stone bodies. “The royal crypt.” He gestured to the fire pit, and Lancer looked down to see that four shapes had been carved in between the lines of fire, the designs so dulled with time that he hadn’t even noticed them.

He blinked at the spade shape opposite his father and followed the little path the firelines made. Two rows of stone albas facing each other trailed down either side of it and off into the army of other statues somewhere. It was the same with the other rows; ridgeback, syrikaal, kilryn… all family of the other kings and queens long dead.

Lancer stared at the spade row again with a cool wave of understanding. Family. That was his family.

No one, let alone his father, ever spoke of any past monarchs. Even the three living kings, once they had been imprisoned, were hardly ever mentioned. Lancer realized that he had barely ever considered that someone besides his dad or the other three kings had ruled the Darklands before.

Lancer looked at his father, questioning something he didn’t know how to ask. Wordlessly, the King nodded, looking off into the graves. Lancer took it as permission to leave.

Warily, he began to mill about the circle, scanning each section. He skirted the flickering bowl of fire his father had lit, shivering. Magic fire could burn you, but it wasn’t warm.

Stepping gingerly over the line of flames, Lancer found himself in the Spades’ wedge of the circle. Warily, he crept up to a statue, glancing briefly up at its serious, vaguely familiar face. He couldn’t look at it for long. There was an inscription on the carved slab at its talons:

 _King Hrath—Son-of-Roc. Reign—42 years._ There was no date. Lancer moved on to an equally stern looking alba next to him. This one had a nasty looking scar down the side of his face.

 _King Roc—Son-of-Rankin. Reign—60 years._ There was no date on this one either. How long ago had these kings died? Lancer looked around at the endless spiral of graves. It must have been a pretty long time. Glancing back at his father, who looked passive, Lancer turned and trotted down the row, staring up at the whirl of eyes looking back down on him.

_Dagar._

_Ren._

_Herot._

_Skil._

Ten, twenty, fifty names flew past him as he ran faster around, and around, and around until he was sure he’d passed his father a hundred times. Columns and arches soared over his head and the fire whipped and rippled behind the statues whenever he ran past.

His heart was pounding. He felt like he could run down here forever. With how vast the crypt seemed, it was almost like he could. Until he almost ran straight into the fire pit.

“Whoa!” Lancer caught himself just before he skidded into the flames, claws scrabbling on the hard floor. He flapped his wings twice, hissing as his sore ribs strained with the movement. Heatless energy crackled in waves over his wingtips, burning without warmth. Lancer gasped in pain both from the fire and the huge claws that suddenly yanked him back by his scruff.

In one fluid motion Lancer was sent crashing into the concrete, ribs screaming. He curled in on himself, unable to catch a breath while his father’s roar echoed endlessly in the chasm.

_“Do you want to die?”_

He towered over Lancer, bristling with rage. His wing was poised over his head, claws cocked back like he wanted to hit him. Lancer shrank, feathers flattening in fear.

For a moment, as his thundering voice still hung in the air, his father’s face sobered in contemplation, and miraculously, he didn’t explode. Lancer watched in confusion as he calmly folded his wings, tail twitching in irritation. He had never done that before. He glared silently at Lancer for a minute, and Lancer took that as a window to speak.

“How—how did we end up back in the middle?” he asked, glancing at the fire pit. “Were we going in cir—”

“There _is_ no middle you spastic twit!” his father snapped. “There’s a fire every hundred feet!” Lancer blinked, and his father swept his wings wide around the room. “This crypt goes on forever! You’d die in here if you got lost, and then where would I be?”

“Wait—what?” Lancer asked, looking around. “How can a room go on forever?” His father rolled his eyes.

“Of course it ends _somewhere,_ but no one’s tried to find it since the last attempt.”

“What happened?” Lancer asked, starting to feel more excited than scared. How had he never heard of all this?

“This isn't just a crypt, it's a labyrinth. All the paths lead you in different directions, and cross each other dozens of times. Soon as you go in, it's near-impossible to get out again.”

Lancer looked at the coiling paths, all leading off somewhere. All crossing and tangling like a giant knot. The statues were all too close together to walk through, forcing you to follow the way, and the ceiling was too low for even kilryn to fly. Even if you could, the forest of columns boxed you in, none of them more than a wing-length apart.

“Couldn’t you just look over the statues and see where you were?” Lancer said. His father snorted, rolling his eyes. He snatched Lancer roughly off the ground and stood to his full height. There, Lancer could see out across a stone sea of faces, but the dim light only reached so far. Above their heads was solid black, and after a few rows he could barely see individual statues at all. As a whole, everything was pretty featureless, and he couldn’t tell one row apart from another.

“Rumor has it you could still hear them screaming from somewhere deep inside," his father said, setting him down. "But they could never make it back, and everyone was to scared to go in and find them. No one’s been down here for thirty years, easily. There are a few marked paths, but they only go so far.” He ran a claw over a line that had been scratched into the floor. Arrows pointed back the way they’d come.

Lancer shuddered at the thought of dying alone in this place, finally slumping and starving against someone else's grave, never to be heard from again. He wondered how many remains scattered the paths. He wondered if there was any under his claws right now. Fear raced through him again, but it was a more sad kind of fear. What a horrible way to die.

“Anyway—before you almost did the same thing—" his father growled. Lancer gulped. “I was taking you somewhere else. Now, thanks to you, we have to backtrack.”

Lancer frowned. It was his father who’d let him go in the first place. He turned to follow him, stalking away back down the path they'd come as a growl echoed back to him.

“Let’s hope you won't doom us to the same fate. Keep up!"

* * *

 

Rouxls tried to keep his feathers smooth as he crept down the staircase, thankful it was pre-lit. He was about as horrendous with magic as he was with anything. He could barely conjure up an orb to light the floor in front of him. Without the torches on the wall, he'd have slipped and broken his neck by now in the dark as the black stone grew slipperier and slipperier with mildew.

Rouxls hated going down here at the best of times, but he needed to talk to someone, even if those someones hated him now. With every step, miscellaneous racket began to filter up from below, tinny from bouncing off stones. Rouxls growled nervously, tail whipping.

The staircase finally opened up to a heavy iron door from which muffled voices and groans rumbled. Two guards stood on either side of it, side-eyeing him. Rouxls recognized them, but he couldn’t think of their names.

One tugged on a cord leading up into the ceiling and the door ground open a minute later, firelight spilling onto the floor and voices spilling into the air. The sentries stepped aside unceremoniously, letting him pass with a wave of their tails. Rouxls just sighed, tucking his head as he walked by.

Jeering and sniggering cropped up from several cells immediately; sounds Rouxls had come to associate with the place. He just let his talons fall into the usual path, staring off into space and letting the noise wash over him until he left the newer prisoners behind. As he ventured deeper down the corridor of cells (keeping staunchly away from the doors, mind you), a dreary quiet fell over him. Any prisoners not sleeping or facing the wall stared despondently at him as he passed. Their stares weren't hateful or mocking, just sad.

Rouxls both liked and hated this part of the dungeon—liked it because the prisoners were quiet, hated it because they were so obviously miserable.

He took a deep breath and turned into a relatively empty antechamber of the dungeon; the only part he never really ventured into. Lowering his head, he warily approached the only occupied cell in the room.

“My lords,” Rouxls said, mantling deeply. A disgusted scoff was his reply.

 _“‘My lords,’_ he says,” snapped a voice Rouxls knew was the Diamond King. “My lords indeed! Of course you would respect us now, with forty iron bars between us!” Rouxls flinched, glad the imprisoned kings couldn’t see his guilty expression.

They stood almost slumping against one another, because the cell was small enough for some part of each of them to be touching. Their hind legs were shackled together and their wing membranes banded so they couldn’t spread all the way. None of them were albas, so the floor was bare rock rather than the thick sheet metal used to deter any digging. They all seemed to have shrunk since the last time Rouxls saw them; they all looked shriveled like unwatered plants. He was glad he couldn’t see them like this.

“Oh, get up!” he snapped again. “Don’t pretend you still have any respect for us.” Rouxls stood, looking miserably at the floor. At least ten excuses and contradictions sat stagnantly in his head; ones that he could never bring himself to say. Weirdly, he dreaded speaking out against the penned-up kings more than the one king left that would kill him for doing the same.

“What happened to your face, eh? Did master get fed up with you?” Rouxls bristed with irritation and embarrassment, trying not to bare his teeth. The claw marks on his face still hadn’t healed completely.

“Hush,” another, meeker voice chided. Rouxls snuck a glance at the Heart King, whose brown eyes were tired and baleful. “Just tell us why you’re here, Rouxls. You’re obviously wanting something.”

Rouxls sighed, feeling worse for asking something of them now, here. “I…” he started. He heard a snort, and something muttered too incoherently to make out. Rouxls straightened.

“I need to speaketh with thee about an… issue at hand.” The Diamond King scoffed, unsheathed fangs snicking together.

“I’m serious," Rouxls pleaded. “It's about Lancer.” Rouxls clammed up as he realized he hadn't said ‘the prince’ or 'young lord’ or some other title. Damnit.

The mood had shifted, though, and there was an uncomfortable pause that Rouxls suspected had nothing to do with his blunder.

“What about him?" the King of Clubs finally spoke, having only sat and stared catatonically at him before. Ironically, the other two seemed to have shut up completely, and were avoiding Rouxls' gaze.

“I thinketh that his father is…" Rouxls fished for what to say. Isolating him? Brainwashing him? Making him every bit a calloused monster as himself?

 _All of the above,_ he thought sullenly, but he didn't say any of those things. Maybe things hadn’t escalated that far yet, but they would. Rouxls could feel that they would.

“Telleth me," he began. “How doth his father's family bring up their heirs?” All three kings turned to stare at him sternly. Even the Club King had come out of his stupor and was frowning defensively.

“That is _none_ of your business," the Diamond King said, feathers flat. The Heart King nodded.

“He’s right," he said. "That's a personal matter; hardly one for us to go sticking our beaks into, let alone yours. You're not his family—you’re not even royalty.”

Rouxls' head snapped up. “I am more family to Lancer than his father ever was!" he snarled. "I keep up with him, I feed him, I care for him, and _I'm_ not the one who beats him within an inch of his life, okay!” A steady snowball of mortification had been—well—snowballing with every word Rouxls snarled at them, but he couldn’t shut up. When he'd finally finished, he looked up, mortified. Three faces stared at him in shock.

 _Shit._ “I mean, uh—ohGod—I-I-I- didn't—” he stammered.

“He _what?"_ the Diamond King growled, teeth showing.

"He's always been cold, but…" the Heart King trailed off, looking contemplative. Rouxls' ears perked.

“What… dost thou mean by ‘what’?” he asked. “Didn’t thou knowest?”

“Well no—the idea that he beats Lancer wasn’t the first thing that came to our heads,” the Diamond King said sarcastically. Rouxls glared at him. The words were flying before he could get a hold of them.

“Considering the hardness of your head, I’m not surprised!”

“Enough!" the Club King roared. "You’re both acting like children. Some explaining is well overdue for all of us now. I recommend that Rouxls explain himself first.” The Heart King nodded, but Diamond just growled, looking away.

“Go on," the Diamond King said, tossing his head at Rouxls, who nodded. This had been an unusual development; he'd never expected the imprisoned kings to actually hear him out.

“Well,” he began, standing up straight. He wasn't about to blow his only chance to actually talk to them. “As I'm sure thou all knowst, I didn't come in close quarters with the royal family until the King… usurped you.” Rouxls heard a quiet grunt.

“But—!” he said, jumping back into it, “the work has been more… challenging than I expected.”

And so Rouxls dove into how the King had thrown all but a select few guards out of the castle and passed their jobs on to him. One chore had come to him on its own though. He’d known Lancer of course. Well, maybe more known _of_ him at the time, but he’d known nonetheless. And as time had passed Rouxls had gotten to know him more—both the good and the bad things.

The bad, he had come to find, mainly had to do with the yearling’s father. Rouxls' voice got quiet when he started talking about the “spars," and he noticed that the faces of the Kings had grown increasingly sullen as well.

“I’m so scared for him anymore," he whispered. "Scared that one day it's going to be too much. That he'll hit him just right, or bite down too hard, and…”

Rouxls didn't say it. The thought was too awful to put into words. He just shook his head and pushed the thought down deep enough to ignore it for now. His throat felt tight, and he had to whisper to keep it from wavering.

“This is an everyday thing—far as I can tell—and the longer it goes on, the worse it’s going to get. It’s keeping me up at night. I just want him to be alright, and I don't want him to turn out like his father.” Thick silence fell over the room, and the sounds of the dungeon seemed far off. “So I came here to ask thee what I should do,” he muttered.

“It doesn't sound like there's much you _can_ do here," the Diamond King said.

Rouxls groaned, putting his head in his claws."I was hoping you wouldn't say that."

“Typically, the hard lessons about leadership don't come until the heir is at least a teenager,” the Heart King said bitterly. “But I suppose his father is disregarding this. I'm stumped on the reasoning, though—why train up a potential threat?”

Rouxls nodded. “Mine guess is that he thinks’t his son art too soft around the edges, especially in his head.” He sighed, wringing his claws. “Where Lancer got such a sweet nature I hath no idea, but I think the King is trying to beat it out of him while he’s young.” His ears flattened. “If he lets Lancer grow up with a head full of feathers, I think he thinkst that will weaken the hold around his rule. I can’t do anything about it or he’ll make sure we never see each other again!”

Throughout the conversation, the Club King had been silent, leaning on the wall with his eyes closed. “What do you think we should do?” Rouxls asked. “You’re a father too.” The Club King was the oldest of the four, and Rouxls figured he had seen the most exchanges of power. He was silent for a moment before opening his eyes. The sadness there made Rouxls' heart sink.

“I think that this can't end without at least one of you dead,” he said bluntly. An uncomfortable pause settled on the room, and Rouxls found himself breaking it when his anger spilled over.

“Then what am I supposed to do?!” he snapped. “If that’s how it is, surely neither one of us can—” he bit down on the exclamation before it could slip out. _“—could_ kill him,” he whispered, leaning in close to the bars, muttering as his thoughts trailed off. “I’m no match for the King. There's no way I could taketh him on if it got bad enough, but Lancer, maybe, when he’s older…”

Rouxls blinked, feeling cold. He was sitting here mulling over whether Lancer could kill his father when that was the very thing he was trying to keep from happening. He wilted, dismay filling his stomach like lead, and looked at the ground to hide the expression he must have been wearing even though he sort of didn’t care. His feathers prickled with hopeless anger.

_Is this really it? Do I just give up now?_

Cool pads roughened by stone rested on Rouxls' shoulder and gave a light squeeze. He blinked in surprise at the Heart King, who had wedged his wing through the bars and was staring at Rouxls with insurmountable pity. The others looked much the same, even the Diamond King. His ears were back, and he looked put out. Rouxls hung his head.

“What now?" he said miserably. There was a pregnant pause, filled with shuffling Rouxls could only assume was the kings looking at each other. It was the Club King who spoke next.

“Be there for him," he rumbled. “He's going to need someone to trust; someone to talk to. Sad as it is—” he said, ears drooping a bit, "—he's probably going to need a sort of… punching bag as well." Rouxls glanced up, confusion and worry etched on his face.

“If it's anything like what you're saying,” the old King continued, “then he's bound to have issues. He'll be needing a way to vent, which might not be pleasant for you if his family is anything to go by.” Rouxls narrowed his eyes at him, ears flat.

“Are you saying he'll be _violent?”_ he growled, all formality gone. "That's what I'm trying to stop!”

“I'd suggest getting used to disappointment,” the Club King said bluntly. “His father is his father. It's a hard truth, but it's done. Lancer is in his talons and he's bound to be roughened up by them sooner or later. It's succession; it happens, and you're either either going to go mad or get yourself killed worrying so much about it.” He sighed, closing his eyes. His next words were heavy.

“Someone should have warned you, I suppose, about getting too attached.”

Rouxls stared at them. It felt like all he could do was stare at them; was he really hearing this? He was just supposed to stand to the side and give Lancer a pat on the head every once and a while while his father broke God knows how many bones? He was supposed to do _nothing?_

“You don't… care?” Rouxls mumbled. The Club King sighed, sounding exasperated.

“Rouxls—”

“Of course we care,” the Heart King interrupted. “If there was anything we could do, I promise you we would. But look around.” He gestured vaguely with a brown-and-white wing. “Unless you have a key or a death wish, we're stuck here. We can't help you. And what are we supposed to say anyway? 'Yes Rouxls, go. Fight the king and get your neck snapped.’ We know even less about this than you do. I suggest you just listen to Club's advice.”

The Club King nodded. Rouxls lashed his tail.

“I won't. I can't. There's no way I'm standing by while this happens, I… I'm going to do something!”

The Heart and Club kings looked at each other doubtfully, but the Diamond King snarled at Rouxls.

"Well have fun dying then!" he snapped. “Honestly I don't know why we even tried to help you! In fact I might as well stop talking now.” His voice dropped to a low growl. “Don’t forget that we're not on the best of terms.”

“Is that a threat?” Rouxls snapped.

"Enough!” The Club King threw open his wings as much as he could (which wasn't much), and the bars clanged. All of them fell silent. His voice was a dangerous, icy growl.

“You don't have to heed my advice, Kaard, but you'll only have yourself to blame for playing with fire. One way or another, this is going to end.”

Rouxls grit his teeth and stiffened, feathers standing on end. Before he said something he'd really regret, he wheeled and ran for the exit, talons clicking on the stone. Before he reached the door, he skidded to a stop and roared all his rage back into the dark confines;

“If he gets killed, I'll know you did _nothing!”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UH so this was originally one mega chapter but I just had to cut it in half it took literally like 10 seconds to scroll through on my phone :/ the original end notes'll be in the next chapter ->


	3. Ink Epitaph

“Quite a likeness, eh?"

"What?” Lancer hadn't noticed that his father had stopped. They had been walking for ages in the crypt, keeping strictly to the marked paths. Lancer noticed that the arrows carved into the stone only marked the spade columns. There was actually a shocking amount of rows they could walk down, and Lancer couldn’t imagine that there were so many more that you could get lost.

He turned in the cramped walkway to see his father standing next to a statue a few paces back. “What’s a likeness?"

"This,” he nodded at the stone face. “I think we can make it work."

Lancer blinked at the monument, with its name as unfamiliar as any they'd passed before. He padded slowly over to his father, whose wings brushed either row of graves when he walked. Lancer’s feathers itched nervously, and he fought to keep them from pressing down as he sat next to him.

“Yes, I think the resemblance is shocking,” his father continued. Lancer frowned.

“What are you talking about?” A hard look flitted over his father’s face for a moment and vanished. Deep in Lancer's mind, little red flag sprung up, but he ignored it. His father said nothing, only shuffled to sit next to the statue. Straightening his spine, he was nearly twice the height of Lancer standing up as he wrapped his tail around his claws. He looked down sternly at Lancer. He shuddered, understanding. His father was mirroring the statue.

“Dad,” he murmured. “Wh—what are you doing?” His father’s stony expression melted away and to Lancer’s shock he rested his heavy, scarred tail over his.

“I’m only thinking of the future,” he said quietly. Lancer’s ears pricked, spellbound—he had never heard his father speak so softly before.

He suddenly looked old in the cold firelight as he turned his head to stare down the endless tangle of walkway. His blue eyes were dull, but Lancer could see uncertainty and… something… glimmering darkly in their depths… was it fear?

With one stroke of a claw, shavings of stone came away like butter and crumbled onto the ground. Lancer's eyes widened. What was he doing? In a few moments, the name on the grave was gone completely.

“Dad…” he whispered, staring owlishly at the place where the inscription had been. An extremely wrong feeling was creeping up his back. That had been someone, and Lancer's father had just erased them from existence. He blinked at the hundreds of complete strangers they had passed to get here and shuddered. Surely there was no one still alive to remember whoever this had been? He blinked miserably. It truly was like this ancient king had never existed.

Would the same thing happen to him a hundred years from now? Or his father? Would their names be scraped away like nothing when _they_ were cold in the ground so some new king could be honored here? Lancer looked around at the sheer number of graves in the room that suddenly didn't feel so huge.

How many times had this happened before?

The weight of all Lancer's thoughts was suffocating, and he suddenly wished he was anywhere but here in this cold, dead place. He felt like the massive weight of stone above his head would crush him, and the stone eyes of his ancestors felt equally heavy on his back. This was family he was surrounded by, but he had never felt more unwelcome.

“Sobering, isn't it?"

Lancer started out of his whirling thoughts at his father's voice, and saw that he'd quietly added scars to match his own over the statue’s face, and clawed off a small crop of stone feathers that had been on its leg. Grim as it was, Lancer had to admit it was the mirror image of his father.

“Always remember, Lancer; everything I do is to ensure that this—” he swept a wing out, gesturing to the rows of statues. “—continues."

Lancer started, wondering eerily whether he meant the lineage or the dying.

“Even when it's hard, just remember this place. Remember me, and know that it's only truly great things that come from suffering.

 _Is that what this king did?_ Lancer wondered bitterly, and he realized that there was, indeed, a tiny flame of anger burning deep inside his chest. It wasn't going away like most things did for him; this was actually getting under his skin.

“Is this what we came down here for?” he asked. His father nodded.

“I take it you've noticed I've been pushing you lately, yes?” Lancer blinked, feeling the ache in his side. The scabbed-over cuts on his face stung.

“I've noticed.”

“Mmn,” grunted his father. It sounded vaguely like a laugh. “Well it hasn't been for nothing, you know. I can already see potential in your combat skills.”

Warmth shot through Lancer at the praise, and the bitter little flame was buried underneath it.

“Really?!” he barked. The tail over his twitched, but his father didn't seem annoyed.

“Yes, but there are some things we have to work on. It's going to be hard at first—”

Lancer looked away. Things being 'hard’ normally meant they were going to hurt.

“—but I'm confident that you'll get through it, and be a better king for it.”

Every doubt Lancer had melted away. He felt like he could burst under the words—king! His father thought he'd be a good king! He hopped up, tail swishing. He _would_ be a good king. He would make the rules. The Darklands would be his. Suddenly, the thought of it seemed very exciting.

“Yeah,” he said. “I'll be the best king!” His excited shout rang out in the crypt, bouncing off all the different types of stone. His father tensed, tail lashing, but when Lancer looked up at him he had a strange-looking grin plastered on his face.

“That's the spirit I'm looking for,” he rumbled. “Now there's just one more thing we need to do, and you're going to help me.”

Lancer blinked as his father jabbed a talon into the spot where the old king's name had been, and a bit of dust rained onto the floor.

“That,” he said, “is about how deep it needs to be.”

“How deep what needs to be?” Lancer stared at the daunting puncture mark. He couldn't cut stone yet; his claws and talons hadn't hardened off, and wouldn't for another few years. He could draw blood if he wasn't careful, but never rock.

“I need you to finish it,” his father said, nodding at the space. “Write my name there.”

Lancer blinked at him, feathers flattening a bit.

“But..” he mumbled. “My—my claws—”

“Are fine. It doesn't have to be pretty.” There was a growl embedded in his voice, and Lancer flinched.

“I just—”

_“Lancer!”_

The King's tail lashed off of his so violently it stung, and the air in the massive room seemed to roll with the force of his roar. Lancer shrank back against the stone, frozen with shock. Before he knew what he was doing a thin, jagged line slashed across the surface.

Lancer blinked in surprise. It was only a few inches long, but there it was; a start. And his claw was only stinging a little. His father was quiet behind him, but Lancer didn’t turn around. He could do this. It was just more lines.

Shakily, he brushed his pads over the rough face of rock, tapping with a claw. It was hard as—well, rock—but there was a tiny give to it that he could sense, as if it was nothing more than tightly packed sand. Similarly, Lancer's worry began to give as well, even with his father’s stare heavy on his back. He took a deep breath and began to gradually drag his claw through the top layer of stone. Immediately a ripping sting speared his claw and up through his hand joints like a needle.

 _“Ow,”_ he hissed, yanking his claws back and shaking out his wing. Okay, slow was worse. A lot worse. For a moment Lancer felt failure and terror wash over him like ice water: he couldn’t do this. He was too young. His dad was gonna kill him.

And then he saw the scratch he’d already made. It hadn’t been that hard; in fact it hadn’t been hard at all.

_So I'll go faster then._

And that’s what he did. For the next few minutes, Lancer traced imaginary lines with his claws until he was confident enough to slash quickly through the stone. Before he could really start to ache, he’d do it all over again. When one claw started to sting he would switch, and then switch again. Slowly, mark by mark, Lancer formed a letter. And then another, and another, and then finally—a bit wobbly but still far better than he’d hoped—the job was done and his father’s name scrawled across the base of the statue.

Meekly, trying to keep his pride under wraps, Lancer peeked back at the King, who sat patiently analyzing his handiwork. His heavy tail tapped the ground once, feathers whishing over the stone, before he dipped his head in a nod.

“Mm,” he grunted.

Facing the other direction, Lancer beamed. It wasn’t the lavish praise he’d honestly been building up in his head while he worked, but it was still one of the biggest compliments he could remember ever receiving from his dad.

He remembered the very biggest one like it was yesterday, though it had been well over four years prior, when Lancer was still a fledgeling. He and his dad had been in the Field for something—Lancer couldn’t remember exactly what—and at some point Lancer had made them both grass crowns, braiding the blades together into two rings. He hadn’t expected his dad to actually wear his, but he had. It had been a bit too small, and slipped when the wind picked up, but he’d worn it nonetheless. And then—this was Lancer’s favorite part—he’d wrapped a wing around him. Not quite a hug, just a brief wonderful weight on his shoulders and a rush of warmth the prince swore he could still feel, if he tried.

A little ache stirred in Lancer’s heart.

_Wait…_

No, not his heart; lower than that, and sharper. Lancer glanced down and gasped, a tiny squeak escaping his lungs.

At his feet were a cluster of sticky, black blots spreading slowly on the ground like ink, and his claws were suddenly on fire.

“Muh—my claws!” he yelped, wheeling to face his father, who looked bored, if anything. Black specks peppered the stone as he closed the space between them, tears blurring his vision.

“Oh, they’re shredded” he cried. “I knew it! I knew they would be!” He hiccuped, looking at the damage while his father rolled his eyes.

“Please. You probably split a few. It happens,” he said. Lancer wasn’t so sure. The blood was weeping out from under his claws, or seeping out of the tips like busted pens. He began to whimper, trembling and holding his claws out helplessly as they dripped.

“Lancer,” his father said. He didn’t sound irritated, for once. “This hurts, doesn't it?”

Lancer blinked confusedly up at his dad. Of course! He nodded, gulping as a stray tear fell down his face.

“It hurts worse than anything?” His father asked. He slanted an ear quizzically, and Lancer frowned despite himself. It hurt pretty bad, but…

“I don't think so,” he muttered. “B—but it feels so awful! Can we go get it fixed?” His father nodded, looking solemn, but it didn't seem like he was actually agreeing.

“Yes, these things can feel awful,” he said. “Things that are bigger than yourself—they often require sacrifice, and sacrifice hurts. Still—” he perked up, pointing with a wing to Lancer's inscription. “Great good can come of agony. And eventually…”

He grasped Lancer's claws roughly and Lancer clamped down on a pained screech, but he heard labored breathing and, miraculously, the pain started leaching out of his claws. Lancer blinked in surprise at his father's own claws (which covered his completely) as they glowed a soft blue-green. In a few moments there was only an ache. In ten seconds, no pain at all.

The King let go of Lancer's claws and he stared at them in awe. Aside from some leftover smudges of blood, they were both completely normal. It was as if Lancer had never touched the statue.

“After the pain, we come back stronger; harder—like your claws. Healing magic is especially hard to master in our family.” His father's words were gradually dragging Lancer's gaze away from his claws.

“Our magic is not for suffering fools,” he said, an edge to his voice. “Our magic is for combat; for keeping our family strong.” He nodded toward the row of statues.

“Did you know that each and every one of those kings was stronger than the last?” He said, eyes glittering. “Imagine how strong you are.”

Lancer blinked wide. He couldn't.

“Again,” his father said. “Keep all this at the back of your mind. Everything is for this.”

Lancer nodded somberly.

“And one more thing,” he said. “I want you to keep all this—this entire errand and discussion of ours I mean—between us. It's a… well, it's a family matter. Think of it like a father-son thing.”

Lancer's eyes lit up. Father-son thing! But then it hit him like a punch to the gut.

_Don't ever lie to me again._

He blanched. How could he explain this to Rouxls and keep it a secret at the same time? They had been gone for a while; Rouxls was sure to have questions. A pit seemed to yawn in his stomach where the good, warm feelings had dared to crop up. Then the answer dawned in his head; he wouldn't lie. He could be vague enough about his dad's conversation with him without giving away too much, and then he wouldn't be breaking his promise to Rouxls.

Lancer nodded. “Promise,” he said. His father grunted.

“Alright then, let's go; remember this place, Lancer.”

The two of them didn't talk much after that; the walk back wasn't too different from when they'd first come down. They had left his father's not-yet-grave for some time when a thought came to Lancer, staring at the opposite row of kryns* facing them.

“Dad?” he said quietly. “Is my mom down here?”

But his father seemed to have done all his talking for the day, and didn't respond. Lancer couldn't necessarily complain; it was more talking than they had done in ages, and it had honestly been kind of great.

It wasn't horribly important either, Lancer supposed. He barely had any memory of his mother. She existed almost more like a feeling in his mind than an image, and sometimes he questioned whether she had even been real. He tried to picture her as one of the hundred faces they'd passed, and realized he didn't really want to know.

Lancer's head was so swimming with thoughts by the time they reached the surface again, he didn't notice when the cold outside breeze ruffled his down, or when sand shifted between his talons.

And all too soon his racing mind was shattered into a dozen pieces as his father's wing, dense and heavy as oak, slammed into his good side full force. Lancer was knocked breathless, spinning into the sand like a top. He was faster though; every day a little faster, and sprung out of the way just as his father's tail smacked down onto empty sand.

“Did you forget so soon where we are?!” he howled, claws curling into the sand as he swayed, readying to strike like a viper. Lancer dropped to all fours, baring his small fangs in turn. Normally he dreaded sparring, but now it seemed like a fire had been lit in his gut as thousands of stone eyes flashed in his head. It felt like all his families’ hearts we're beating as one in his chest. His claws, stronger now, pawed at the soft ground.

“Never,” he growled, smiling at his dad. A memory came flooding back to him. _That_ was what they had been doing in the field that day; his dad had been play-fighting with him.

But Lancer had grown, and the games weren't games anymore.

 _I'll fight, Dad,_ he thought, heart pounding. He lashed his tail, legs tensed like a spring before he launched, claws extended.

_I'll make you proud._

* * *

 

_Where could they be?_

Rouxls pounded down the corridor, listening intently for any sign of Lancer. He was too deep in the bowels of the castle now for any guards to be about. It was unlikely that the prince or his father were down here either, but he had to check. After all, no one had seen them leave the castle this morning.

Once he'd left the dungeon, it hadn’t taken five minutes of clearing his head for Rouxls to dejectedly abandon any thoughts of rebelling against the King.

When he’d blown up at the imprisoned kings (Lord, _why_ had he done that?) the statement had been mostly out of anger, which had also been tactless and uncalled for. The only people Rouxls was truly angry at were the King, of course, and himself. It hadn’t been the three kings’ fault that Rouxls had gotten too close to Lancer, or couldn’t fight his way out of an elevator, let alone the King.

Overall, the entire visit Rouxls had paid them had been a disaster, and he wasn’t even any closer to getting Lancer out of danger.

He reached the bottom-most room of the castle and huffed, half with worry and half with irritation. Nothing. Only rows of casks and crates greeted him, all covered in dust and cobwebs. Anger shot through Rouxls for a moment. They must have left then, somehow, when no one was looking. And he had done this all for nothing.

Rouxls was halfway out of the store room when he saw it. Faint, definite scuff marks slashed through the dust on the floor; messy and random. Rouxls grabbed an oil lamp off the wall and leaned down to inspect them. Definitely recent, but not distinct enough for him to tell if it was Lancer or the King or whoever.

He huffed again and turned, stalking out of the room and putting the lamp back on it's sconce as angrily as he could manage.

When he reached the ground floor minutes later an excited keening met his ears.

“Rouxls!”

Rouxls started and turned to see Lancer scrambling for him down the hallway. He blinked.

“Where hast thou _been?”_ he snapped. “I’ve been all over the place looking for you!” Lancer scrambled to a halt in front of him, faltering a bit. Rouxls' heart sank to see that he was bleeding from a deep cut in his shoulder, and he was favoring his right foot. He cocked his head at Rouxls, seemingly oblivious to the wounds.

“Really? We’ve been right here the whole time,” he said. Rouxls couldn't get a word in before Lancer suddenly started rattling off, launching into what he'd been doing before Rouxls could even ask.

“You’d never believe it, though! Dad took me on a walk and we had a really long talk and it was kind of depressing but then he said I was growing up fast and that I was going to be a good king and then he held my hand and oh, Rouxls he was so _nice_ to me!” Lancer gulped a lungful of air like a fish, and any attempt of Rouxls' to interject was drowned out again.

“And now I really really want to make him happy so I have to be the best prince I can be now because I have a lot to learn before I can be king so bye!”

And he was off like a shot, racing for the nearest corner while Rouxls still stood there trying to comprehend what, exactly, had just happened.

“Lancer I—Just—hold it!” he snapped, looping his tail around the runaway prince's hind legs and sweeping him off his claws. He hit the floor with a huff, rolling onto his good leg.

“What are you talking about now?” Rouxls said. “The King was talking to you about thine reign?”

“Yeah!” he barked. “We’re gonna be thinking about our _fuuutures_ now.” he said the word like it was some magical incantation, and Rouxls frowned. A very uneasy feeling was worming through his stomach.

 _“Futures?”_ He barked. “What exactly did he say to you? I need to know.” The unbridled excitement on Lancer’s face faltered for a second and Rouxls' doubt skyrocketed.

“Um,” Lancer said. “He said—he said that we all had jobs we need to do and that I have to be prepared to do it and that being king is about making decisions and that it’s hard sometimes.” His eyes brightened. “But that he thought I could do it!” Rouxls blinked incredulously at Lancer as he tried to make sense of his excited rambling. He could hear the little alba's heart beating a mile a minute.

“Was that it?” he said.

“Pretty much.” Lancer stared at the space between Rouxls' eyes. “There was some other stuff I didn’t really understand. Like um,” he slanted one ear like he was remembering something. “How healing magic works.” Rouxls and Lancer stared at each other for a few heartbeats; Rouxls trying for all he could to see into Lancer’s head and know what he’d missed and Lancer staring nervously back. It felt like he was lying again, but it also didn't. But he did seem happy—happier than he had been in a while. Frustratedly, Rouxls felt himself giving in.

“Okay,” he sighed. “I believe you. Just go to the shoppe and wait for me there. I’ll be there in a minute to clean thine wounds.”

Lancer shook his head. “No thanks,” he said. “I actually think I’m okay this time.” With that, he stood and scampered around the corner, vanishing, and leaving Rouxls in a heap of confusion.

“Won’t someone tell me what the hell is happening?” he muttered. Part of him wanted to run after Lancer with an arsenal of styptic powder, but it would be a fool's errand. If Lancer was one thing, it was stubborn as his father, and Rouxls didn't feel like getting into an argument after that morning. It was probably best that he didn't anyway. His thoughts wandered back to the King, and how thin the ice he stood on was already. He didn't need to be helping it along.

Lancer was happy, and that was what mattered.

* * *

 

The corridors of cells were dark and silent.

 _And stuffy,_ thought the green-and-brown kraal* that padded dejectedly down them. With no sun, there was no need for any kind of windows. Not really. He, personally, thought some added ventilation would be nice. It would certainly make his job easier.

The guard’s name was Rix, and he was on the midnight shift for the week. It had been figured out a long time ago that it was much better to get the prisoners their breakfast in the earliest hours of the day rather than deal with it when they were all awake. Even for the sentries it got old.

Rix padded quietly out of the aisle and into a back room—the last stop for him this morning. As he approached the room’s only cell, the four-pointed shard of light he kept suspended near him cast an eerie teal wash over its three occupants. They were almost on top of each other, curled up in the cramped cell like small hills. It felt strange seeing the old kings this way; locked in this cracker box cage with him being the one to give them cold, mediocre rations. Rix hardly thought he’d ever get used to it.

As quietly as he could, the kraal drew three meal packets wrapped in paper out of the satchel around his neck and slipped them through the bars without a crinkle. His ears pricked at the little victory. Then he stood, and his blood went cold.

The Diamond King— _his_ king—was staring right at him. His amber eyes glinted from somewhere toward the back of the cell; too dark and entangled with the others’ tails and wings to make out much else. All he could see were his irises, shining coldly back at him. The ruff of feathers on the kraal’s neck almost quivered; warring between fluffing up with fear or flattening with shame, until Rix couldn’t stand it and sprinted out of the room without looking back. The Diamond King’s stare still felt heavy on his shoulders. So heavy that he almost missed the hissed whisper.

“Hey guard! _Hey!”_

Rix skidded to a stop, turning to see a pale claw waving from out of a cell behind him. It beckoned him over to the bars where he could barely make out an old syrikaal like himself sitting hunched in the dark. He was brown and bony, with sunken eyes and calloused limbs from living on stone for so long. He had been a prisoner for several years, and Rix knew that his days were numbered.

“What could I get for information?” he rasped, whispering frantically. His blue eyes darted anywhere but directly at at him.

“Um, depends,” Rix said. “What kind of information?” Prisoners trying to bargain with guards wasn’t uncommon, but given this particular kraal’s position he was willing to listen. Just this once.

The elderly syrikaal’s eyes practically glowed. “I heard something today. Someone talking to the kings in there,” he said, and his voice dropped to a rushed whisper that Rix had to strain to hear. “Something about killing the Spade King.”

Rix’s ears pricked.

The kraal continued in a throaty, excited rasp, eyes flashing. “And you’ll never believe who it was!”

Rix leaned down close to the bars as the kraal whispered more into his ear. The more Rix heard, the wider and wider his eyes got until they were like two pale moons. Minutes later, he dipped his head in thanks to the old kraal and said “I’ll see what I can do,” before pelting for the staircase faster than he ever had before.

Finally, _finally_ something interesting!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *kraal: term for a male lyrrdak (kryn is the female counterpart)
> 
> Rouxls you dense, dense bicth.
> 
> I did Not like writing this chapter. It felt like 40 years of talking which I always feel like I write awkwardly or boring. I probably repeated stuff from the last chapter 500 times as well but I’ve officially entered the ‘ain’t like that now’ stage of fic writing where I don’t go looking back at anything lmao. The guard’s name in that last bit was a reference to ebip’s oc on tumblr because I like their art A Lot. He probably won’t be showing up again though
> 
> I also made a [fake poster](https://aarmyk.tumblr.com/post/180717888354/me-after-painting-oh-it-looks-so-good-me) because I can’t do anything in half measures. I wouldn’t mention it if the crypt wasn’t in there.
> 
> I just want to clarify that when the King isn't being outright horrible to his son, any kind of connection or “affection" he shows is born purely from manipulation. The most similar thing I can think of is that post about how in Tangled it seems like mother Gothel is being affectionate towards Rapunzel, but when you actually pay attention all the doting’s actually being done to her hair. It's no different here; the king is trying to get something out of him, not give. Although who knows; I like complex characters anyway (complex; not secretly moral or non-horrible) you decide.
> 
> I thought the Dark World was underground and I’m 90% sure I was wrong. Oh well I guess it's weird dimensional ambiguity from here on out ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ Since chapter one has officially crossed into the 'ain't like that now’ zone expect continuity errors having to do with that chapter then oh well.
> 
> Everyone has fire bc it is Convenient™ and I still can't write Rouxls’ crazy dialogue in serious contexts sorry lol. I do hc that he can talk normally and that the Shakespearean stuff is an act, so when he's really mad or stressed it goes out the window, which is gonna be a lot in this fic lol  
> I love how RK being verbally shoved into lockers by everyone in the castle is a trend. Dungeon is the official Roast Hole 2K18. I know the naming thing is kinda weird since the current kings have none, but I mean, Lancer has a name so

**Author's Note:**

> Lyrrdak have eyelashes and I always forget it tbh. Also Kaard is actually a valid Vyrrhian name. Mantling is when a bird of prey or vulture kind of hunches over their food with their wings spread. It makes a good birdish action for bowing/showing respect (Skit’s tip o’ the day)
> 
> oml HOW do y’all write in that Renaissance speak?? It felt so weird and kinda dumb. Props. Props to y’all for making it work, jeez. I think that Rouxls would be able to kinda drop the act around Lancer though, esp if it’s a bad day or if he's half asleep like in the last part. I just can’t see a panicked adult spouting forsooths and prithee around a hurt kid
> 
> Ok so to break some of this down, within my weird species rules, Rouxls is a syrikal; a breed of lyrrdak that likes to go f a s t, and also tends to have anxiety. Kind of like cheetahs; all legs no chill. Lance and his dad are albas, which are more stocky, emotional, and energetic. Also thicc. They’re tunnelers which is how King was able to cut through rock with his claws. OP, but it makes sense in Delta context. Don’t get lost in the sauce too much; that’s for me to do: “Undertale shit?? and?? ?? Big Alien Birds?? Collide?? What do?” This I guess. Keep in mind I write about these animals like, constantly so what you may be looking at going “what the hell” is what is on my mind 24/7. Chaos.


End file.
